Jack Terral - Rolling Thunder (2007)

Listen, Carl, Turnbull said, I've been on the ground as a grunt, see? And I want to make sure that Entienne quickly interrupted. The CIA recommends this intelligence be taken seriously. That is all we need to consider.

And it will be taken seriously, the President said, irritated. Please continue, Edgar.

Thank you, Mr. President, the CIA man said. This opium-smuggling route is financing the Iranians big-time in their efforts to take over all insurgencies in the Middle East. Every single, solitary run brings more funds into their coffers. That means weaponry, ammunition, supplies, recruitment, and all other aspects of their program for making war.

Would you say they have a monopoly in the Afghan poppy-smuggling scene? Joplin asked.

Damn near, Watson answered. It's only a matter of time before they'll be pulling in millions of dollars each and every month of the year.

The President leaned forward in his chair. I'm going to save a lot of time for everybody this evening. I am issuing a vocal executive order at this very moment; are you ready? Attack that route and put an end to the smuggling. Any questions? No? Good! Do those things that you do the best to bring this intolerable situation under control. He stood up. I'm off to Camp David.

After the Chief Executive left, Turnbull got to his feet. I'm going to have to go to my office to get the President's mandate into effect. He nodded to Watson. Do you have the maps, satellite photos, and other stuff I need to kick through the system?

It's all right here in my briefcase, Watson replied.

Then you and I better get over to the Pentagon, Turnbull said. It looks like we'll have to drive. I came over here in my POV. He looked at Entienne. I was just about to sit down to dinner when you called, so I didn't have time to arrange for transportation.

You can put in a travel voucher, John, Entienne said.

Will you sign it?

Probably not, she replied.

Watson laughed, showing uncharacteristic humor. Hell! I did come over from my office. I have an Agency car outside. He glanced at Turnbull. You lead, I'll follow. And don't worry. The CIA has parking spaces at the Pentagon. So in case you have to park out at the curb somewhere, I can take you in.

I have my own personal spot, Turnbull said, determined to top the other guy.

Joplin watched them leave, then turned to Entienne. Can you believe that we're in the middle of a situation that threatens world peace, and there're two guys involved in this complicated process who are trying to top each other over where they're going to park their cars?

Fun and games among the alpha males, Entienne said. Let's go down to my office, Carl. You and I have our own chores in this Persian Empire shit.

Tsk! Tsk! Joplin said. That's no way for a lady to talk.

If I were a lady, I wouldn't be in this job. C'mon!

.

OPERATIONAL AREA

SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN DESERT

15 MAY

1045 HOURS

OPERATION Rolling Thunder had ground down to a dull routine of predictable repetition, useless effort, and a mind-set of unending boredom. It seemed to Brannigan's Brigands that they had gone from the tedium of shipboard life aboard the USS Dan Daly to a short spate of excitement, then had been tossed into a stagnant period filled with dreary terrain and small foreign people who did not like them very much.

The principal duty now assigned them was to take the DPVs out on patrols across the desert, for no other apparent reason than to burn fuel between stopping at villages to make fruitless searches for hidden weapons caches. A reason for this grind was hinted at from the USS Combs after Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan sent a scathing transmission to Commander Tom Carey, bitching about how Operation Rolling Thunder had evolved into a make-work situation. Carey replied that the former warlord in the OA might have been neutralized almost a year earlier, but it was still necessary to continually check up on him and his followers. Carey's message ended with a strong hint for the Brigands and Brannigan in particular to follow orders even if they flew out a window.

Now, after two solid hours of travel, all six vehicles pulled into a small Tajic village they had visited a half-dozen times.

Another procedure they followed was having the Alpha Two vehicle with Connie Concord, Mike Assad, and Dave Leibowitz scope out the area before the detachment actually drove into the vicinity. Afghanistan was a place of nasty surprises where a population friendly one day might turn vicious the next. It only took the Odd Couple five minutes to determine no danger lurked among the huts.

The SEALs had made calls on that community and other similar ones so many times that they had managed to pick up a bit of the Dari language. Their accents elicited polite laughter from the natives, but the Brigands spoke loudly and boldly, feeling as if the less than dozen words they knew made them bi- or multilingual.

As the DPVs came to a stop, all the village kids came running and yelling in anticipation of goodies. Bruno Puglisi had a box of candy purchased at the Shelor Field BX. He stepped down to the ground from the vehicle, shouting at the top of his voice. Hey, you atfal! he yelled out. Get over here damn zut shodan! Chop! Chop! I got zyad candy for you. He began tossing the sweets up into the air, and the kids started a mini-riot of energetic bumping and shoving as they scrambled for the goodies. The adult males, as usual, were the only grownups outside, and they grinned at the sight, each hoping his own children would get plenty to share with the household.

The village chief, an old guy the Brigands had nicknamed Captain, walked onto the scene. He displayed a wide smile and salaamed to Brannigan. Hello, Boss. How are you?

I'm fine, Captain, Brannigan replied.

Me too, the old man said. I am being very fine. Excellent. That is how I am being. His real name was Mohammed Ghani, and his age appeared to be anywhere between forty and ninety-nine. He spoke a strange brand of English, having picked it up in Pakistan, where it is a quasi-official language. Captain had left the village as a young man, snuck across the Pakistani border, and made his way to the capital city of Islamabad. He found low-paying, dirty work at first, toiling as a common laborer until a Pakistani friend steered him to a job in a rather excellent hotel called the Diplomat. He began as a bellboy, but after a few years of loyal and efficient service was named the bell captain. This was where the SEALs got their nickname for him.

Brannigan shook Captain's hand. Have you and your people been good? You don't have guns or anything like that since we were here last.

Oh, no, Boss, Captain said. We are good people here. Yes, sir!

The warlord hasn't brought you anything to hide for him, has he?

Captain shook his head. I am not seeing him for many months now. You are too strong for him, Boss. Ha! Ha! Maybe you are scaring him.

The Brigands had made a couple of rough searches of the village houses in the past, finding a couple of AK-47s and ammunition. Since there wasn't a large cache of arms, it was obvious the inhabitants weren't dealing in weapons or hiding any for Taliban insurgents, so Brannigan did no more than confiscate the arms. He left the single-shot rifles mostly tooled for the British Enfield .303-caliber since the men needed them for hunting.

You stay good, Captain, Brannigan said. He nodded a good-bye to the headman, then turned to walk back to the detachment. He gestured to Senior Chief Dawkins, and the old salt left where he was standing by the Charlie One vehicle and strolled over to Captain. Hello, Cap'n. You listen to me dihyan, eh? Boss Brannigan he tells us no search your ghar too much this time because we no find much. I tell him that's not a good idea. I tell him I think you hide weapons bohut weapons so we should make another search. But he said no.